One (More) Sip Won’t Kill Me!

I’m an alcoholic.

I acknowledge that, however, I’m sure one more sip won’t kill me.

Alcohol addiction is a bad thing, man. At the start, it feels like it’s helping you lose some of your trapping inhibitions before it kicks in for good and fucks you up completely.

It all begins on a Friday afternoon when you’re commuting back from the office. You’re shattered, you’re a social drinker so don’t really perceive alcohol as a relief, as an escape from a lousy week, day, moment, or whatever shit you’re going through. But it has been an awful week, you haven’t had that much food — almost any actually because of that obsession for weight control — and the weather is worryingly thunder-storming as if all the gods were channelling their fury into a ferocious war. It’s a real bloodshed out there!

Ok, so you get home right?! You don’t really feel like going out because you’re new to the city, you don’t have many friends or people you’d like to hang out with (loneliness level 100!!!), the weather, as said above, sucks monkey, donkey, junkie balls, and yeah screw it, I’m going to stay indoors. You need to relax and you could really use a glass of red wine, just one. ‘Come on, one sip won’t kill me!’ So you pour yourself a glass but a sip leads to another and another and another, and 15 minutes later you fill up a second glass, then a third, then a fourth, and the song you’re listening is so captivating it needs more drinking, so you’re about to kill the whole bottle.

Not a big deal though, one more sip won’t kill me.

You feel a little better, a little relieved…I mean, you know the feeling. It gets like you can see widely, that you could express yourself smoothly if given the opportunity; you stop overthinking, overreacting, over-feeling like a bonehead all the time. You feel so good you appreciate alcohol as an occasional cure, and even if you know you shouldn’t abuse, you’re going to have that wine or beer supply at home just in case. Just in case you need a sip…well, one more sip won’t kill me, right?

A couple of days later you come back from what was a dreadful Wednesday at the office and ask your housemate who, luckily or coincidentally, is off that afternoon too, to meet you at the local pub for a pint. Careful pal, it’s a weekday and you promised yourself you wouldn’t be drinking until the weekend and you plan to stick to it.

But then, I mean, one more sip won’t kill me.

The two of you start chatting, ‘what’s on your mind, big boy?’, he asks. Your flow of consciousness explodes in a field of withered sunflowers, burning all the stems in the deeper underground and erasing every form or possibility of life! He does the same. You’re on the same leaking boat, which triggers another pint for you both to dig a little deeper. ‘Do you still think about her?’, you ask rhetorically. ‘Please…’, he says, kind of bothered. You both know the answer, you both know she broke him apart and he’ll never get over her, so why bring it up?! You knew that would bring on another pint even if you don’t really fancy one.

Hey, it’s fine, one more sip won’t kill me.

The day is done, and with time passing by, so is your story as housemates: you part ways and ’stay in touch, okay?!’ Sure, everybody lives their lives and…who knows what happened to that guy.

You move to a new place and it’s a bit lonely in there. It’s nighttime, the house is hollow — there’s no furniture yet — your fridge is dead empty and you realise that the only supply you have is 3 bottles of red wine. You could go get some food but can’t really be arsed to go out and, you know what, the day was terrible, you deserve a glass of wine and some chillout music. You enjoy the moment, your mind travels through thoughts and memories you wouldn’t normally recall, and it’s all so relaxing you uncork a second bottle because you don’t want to lose that stream of consciousness. Besides, you know one more sip won’t kill you.

Now it’s taking off: the need for alcohol is stronger. You fall into a loop. The day after, the day after the day after, the day after that, and so on. 

You sit on the floor with an ashtray crammed with cigarette butts, wrapped in a deadly smoke that slows down your breathing one puff at a time. You feel weak and miserable. There must be some joy in self-inflicting pain we’re yet to find out and for some reason, it still feels so damn good. Those questions you never had an answer for begin to re-emerge. You understand why you hated school so much, why you never wanted to study, why you were always the fat one girls cruelly ignored and where your insecurities came from, why she cheated on you and you could never accept the idea of having been fooled, why you became that ice-cold player girls feared most. You start connecting the dots and it all makes less and less sense. The less sense it makes, the more alcohol you need. Your brain opens up to an overthinking routine that alcohol was supposed to prevent in the first place. The loop keeps spinning, so that now every second of your day, every moment, every damn thing – needs alcohol to be cured. You become a sort of hypochondriac; every little pain leads to immediate medication: alcohol.

Even one sip: besides, one more sip won’t kill me.

The morning after you do a couple of shots of gin before going to work, it’ll help you get through the day. It’s not enough though, you sneak out at lunchtime saying you’re going for a walk and pop into the pub for a quick two pints and a shot. When you get home in the evening, your stomach burns like the flames of the deepest circle of hell. You’ve lost weight, a lot of weight — you’ve had nothing but booze for a whole week! Now your face is marked with the strains of alcohol, of the addiction, and everybody can see it, your manager can see it and has a chat with you, but you won’t listen (maybe you can’t even) and instead, keep showing up at work more and more worn out until you force them to do something about it: you lose your job.

Booze after booze — poison after poison — you run out of money, you can’t pay for the house and get evicted: you need to get your stuff and park your ass somewhere in the streets. You start begging for money — this is what you’ve come to. It’s raining, it stinks out there (you stink too!), and you think it all started with one sip — one damn sip — to feel a little better. It’s freezing, you try to wrap yourself in more clothes but it doesn’t help. Your mind clears up for a second: you get ahold of yourself and you promise you won’t be touching any more alcohol.

Bum sleeping
Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash

In the days that follow, you scrape together enough pounds for a meal and a haircut and an acquaintance of yours that you meet randomly under the Overground bridge understands your situation and kindly lets you stay with him for a while. You find a job as a waiter in one of the bars on the road, the pay is decent, they treat you well, and a month later you can afford a room on your own. Your acquaintance becomes a true friend, the one and only who helped you get your ass off the street, and you start spending a lot of time together. You’re sober, clear, in better shape, and decide to cook a nice dinner for your friend. He comes with a bottle of red wine and makes you promise you’ll just have a sip for celebration. You’re not screwing this up again and you both take just a glass each.

The night is done, your friend gives you a ‘see ya later’ and walks out. You clear the table, wash the plates, tidy up the kitchen, cork that bottle of wine and place it on the fridge. 

You’re in bed checking your Instagram feed — a photo here, a video there, a couple of stories — you think back to all you’ve been through and how you came out of it just fine. But you can’t sleep. How could you do that to yourself? What caused it in the first place? You elaborate moments, people, yourself, and even though things seem to connect, you can’t find a reason for your anxiety, for the agony, the unresolved personal issues. A vortex of thoughts starts hovering over you and you feel like the ceiling is about to push down on you. It’s so strong you stand up, shake your head, your thoughts — you have to remain calm. 

You eye at that bottle of wine standing there, glowing in the dark, and you know that just one glass could really help you relax and sleep, that even if you exaggerated in the past, it doesn’t mean you can’t learn to dose it from now on. You take a sip, literally, put it back and go to bed. But you can’t stop thinking about it. 

It was never about your juvenile issues or your insecurities or inhibitions, about you being someone who overthinks again and again, about not being able to put your pride aside when she went with another guy — that’s all totally normal. 

Truth is you’re an alcoholic, a bad one — you’re an addict. And sometimes addictions just arise to fill a void, a moment of loneliness, of personal crisis, leading us to think they’ll be a quick solution. Though, solutions come with time, with peacefulness, effort and a strong will to change for the better. Sip by sip. 

But it’s just a bottle of wine, right? Just one bottle…one single bottle.

Just one more sip: one more sip won’t kill me.

Jim
The Britalian Post

London Housing: Can Flowers Fix Things?

The other day I walked into my house and saw a bouquet of flowers addressed to one of my housemates – no idea who.

I don’t really have a relationship with my housemates, I don’t know who they are, what they do, or even their names. I know that most of them are from Romania and don’t really speak English, which brings all the interactions to barely saying hi when we cross paths in the kitchen.

The flowers came along with a note that got me curious, so I read it. It said something like ‘I know you need your own space right now and I totally understand it. You’re special and I’ll be waiting for all the time you need. Please let me fix things.’ 

So I imagined a background story.

I imagined this couple being in a committed relationship, living together, building a future together, and him screwing things up at some point. A financial issue that ended up in a bad argument? Failing to take responsibilities when running the house? Obsessive jealousy or another girl? His brutally aggressive temper? Something must have caused the break-up: who knows what “things” he needs to fix. She asks for a break, for some time off with her thoughts because she needs to focus on herself for a while in order to understand her own priorities. She needs to move out, find a new place, start over. A straight course of action, even quite simple if it didn’t affect someone’s feelings. 

However, London never makes anything easy. For one main reason: housing.

Empty room
Photo by Anthony Tran on Unsplash

Many times when renting in London, you’re bound to yearly contracts that, if terminated early, entail paying exorbitant fees – and sometimes we’re talking three figures! It’s not a coincidence you hear about a jillion of couples who are coerced into living together even when their relationship is over. Nasty stuff, but what can you do? The only way out is to hand away a couple of grand and still be able to have enough left over to afford the downpayment for a new place. And I imagine having to live like this; having to see all the pictures you have together hanging nicely on the walls, all the gifts, furniture and lovely items you bought for each other – every effort to make that place look like home.

Day after day, after day.

I’m assuming she didn’t want to live like that, that she didn’t want to carry that daily burden, for the pain and grief were too much to bear. So she takes that unfair bargain – another injustice London had carefully reserved for her – covers the fees and walks out. 

Apparently, she lives in my house now – somewhere upstairs. I’ve never met her, in fact, I didn’t even know we had a new person in the house. Anyway, after being parked there for days, she eventually collects the flowers. Maybe there would be a pinch of hope for that guy if she didn’t throw them away at the sight of the sender’s name.

I seriously don’t know how this is going to develop. I’m just hoping she’ll let me fix things.

Jim
The Britalian Post

Will you be my Valentine?

Will you be my Valentine?

It may sound like a simple question from somebody who feels a little lonely, who can’t get a date, who doesn’t have anybody to love and doesn’t want to accept that being loved is just a movie thing. Maybe somebody who thinks that their Valentine is going to be their one true love.

It’s a simple question the girl handing out food samples outside Simit Sarayi on Green Lanes is asking to passers-by – a direct marketing effort to attract people inside for food. She’s nice and smiley to everyone, and some stop for a chat. Over and over again, for hours, she asks: “will you be my Valentine?”

She’s worked there for a couple of months now, I think, always handing out food and chatting with people. I heard her name is Asena and she’s Turkish. She’s from a poor area near Istanbul, from a very old-fashioned and patriarchic family who still believes in arranged marriages. Back there, they wouldn’t allow her to work, nor wear fancy dresses, nor go out much. She could only do housework – cook, clean, knit. It surely wasn’t the life she expected and she’d often dream of incredible experiences through the shows on TV. 

One day, while running her usual errands in town, she bumped into a visitor named John who seemed to show some flair for her. She was shy but not enough to hide a smile from him, a smile that, day after day, convinced him to approach her. John was English; he was a photographer travelling the world to get nice shots for his portfolio and images he could then sell. He was a roamer, an explorer; he knew facts, stories – the world – and his tales could only fascinate a girl like Asena who, of the world, had only pictured what she saw on TV. 

They met every day. They’d talk, laugh, get to know each other. She would spend all of her time with him before curfew. They’d secretly hold hands, exchange romantic notes she would store under her mattress, and finally one day he kissed her. And it was the sweetest kiss ever! She touched the sky, the planets, the top of the universe. She finally understood what love tastes like through the lips of somebody who loves you. It was all real. 

Valentine's day
Image credit: Photo by Randy Kinne on Unsplash

Always being careful not to alert her father with her constant escapes, they met at his hotel. They made love, over and over and over again. She discovered her libido, lust, passion, her and his body. And she loved it.

It was February 14th when he asked her to be his Valentine and handed her a small shiny-red box of chocolate. She glittered! She could never hope something this delightful would happen to her, that love itself would happen at all.

They would never leave each other, they were meant to be together forever – they both acknowledged it. So she decided to step up and talk to her father, to explain she’d found true love and get his blessing. It was the right thing to do in the name of love!

Against all purest and most naive expectations, his reaction was furious! He would never allow her to see anybody he hadn’t made arrangements for. He yelled at her, made her feel miserable, called her offensive names while hitting her violently, and locked her in her room for good. 

A couple of days later, hit after hit, cry after cry, she managed to escape and go see John. She begged him to take her with him anywhere in the world, as long as they could be together – as long as they could live their true love story. But John seemed to be a little off. He had had second thoughts about that relationship, he wasn’t sure it was going to work, plus he had to leave soon for another place. He sounded distant, uninterested. She was confused, “I thought this was love love”, she cried – tears of desperation, of abandonment. 

But that was the naked truth. While for Asena, John was the one true love, for John, Asena was just another experience. One that would end as soon as he moved to a new place in the world.

When she got home, her father punished her with extreme violence. He’d hit her to bleed before locking her in once again. 

The days that followed developed through physical and mental pain, tears, regret, hurtfulness. She wasn’t allowed to leave the house, her room, anymore. She would read and read the love notes they exchanged, she relived in her mind the future she thought they’d have – happiness – and the more she dived in, the more it buried her. She went completely insane. 

Valentine's Day
Image credit: Photo by Kat J on Unsplash

So one night she did it. When her father got into her room to hit her again and swang his hand to slap her face, she pierced his neck with a paper-knife she had hidden in her tights. He fell on the floor with a horrified look and bled to death in less than a minute. Asena stared – she couldn’t move. She was terrified but relieved, and had to think quick. She got his wallet and ran off, and after a couple of miles running, she got to the port. A ferry was about to ship soon and Asena saw her only opportunity to leave that place. So she hid on the ferry and began her journey, while pain, horror, fear, love began to nurture her obsession: she’d sneer and whisper “I will find you, John, my love…I will find you.”    

The last thing she heard from John was that he was going back to England for a while to settle his work. He told her he was from London, from a North-East area called Green Lanes, the Turkish area. That’s where she was headed. 

Days passed by and Asena finally reached her destination. Green Lanes felt so familiar, everyone was so kind and welcoming and she managed to find a job as a waitress at Simit Sarayi – everyone liked her immediately. 

So now she has a new life. She’s got a job, she’s got people who care for her, she’s happy. 

Today she’s handing out food samples, all smiley and chatty. 

“Will you be my Valentine?” may sound like a simple question from somebody who feels a little lonely, somebody who thinks that their Valentine is going to be their one true love. Or maybe is a sign of obsession, of mental insanity, of somebody who’s not going to stop until she finds John.

“Sir, sir…will you be my Valentine?” 

Jim
The Britalian Post

Lines

My mum said life is made of multiple lines.

Not just one. Straight. Direct.

Multiple.

Multiple lines; separate, parallel, intertwined.

Every single line you tread is not omniscient and predefined. It’s always multiple lines. They’re made of choices, possibilities, coincidences. They can be taken singularly or as a whole. You can leap from one to another; you can cross the line or toe the line. 

Most times you have to toe the line: follow rules, legal rules, social rules, behavioural rules, relational and human. In all other cases, there’s not a line you can’t cross, I mean other than the one separating the platform from the train down the London underground stations – unless you don’t really hold your life dear. Pretty much what I do, figuratively speaking, and risk falling into that gap every single goddamn day! 

Like her story.

She had a well paid and secure job in Italy, a solid relationship with a reliable and stable person, a nice house, a cute and lovely doggy – all the comforts and simple pleasures one would hope for when they reach a certain age. One single downside: she just wasn’t happy. 

She would hate that job to the point where it makes you break down and lock yourself in the toilets for a jiff of relief. Her relationship had been falling apart for a long time, no more talking, sharing, sleeping together; no more love, if that ever existed in that form. Her apartment was located in one of those old-fashioned buildings far from the city centre, those family-friendly, boring-friendly, sad-friendly areas, the whatever-friendly type that kills excitement, hopes, dreams, or even the most simple and genuine daily moment you may ever want to rely on. The city itself, for how young and vibrant, was running out of the appeal it was initially offering. She couldn’t stand that anymore. It was being too much, or too little, to bear. To break the routine, she decided to visit a family member in London for the weekend, and on the Friday she landed, they made their way into the local pub for a drink or two. Actually, make it five or six. As soon as they walked through the doors and waded into the cluttered crowd, her look crossed with one of the bartender’s, and in a matter of minutes, they started chatting. It wasn’t more than teasing each other, more than two pretty buddies hitting on each other through the night. 

The bartender had quite a story himself. He decided upon leaving a decent office job, a fun and fast-paced environment, maybe a career in the long term, for the unknown, for no other relevant opportunity. He felt he wasn’t the right fit, that he wasn’t fulfilling his greatest passions, his inclinations, somehow what he was good at. It was a reckless decision, and yes he did regret it for a while. He started looking for more suitable opportunities out there that, with the job market becoming extremely demanding and highly competitive, were late to come. And with time passing by and he getting more and more broke, he had to go back to bartending to cover expenses and debts, and swinging from a place to another, he ended up working at that pub.

The two of them spent the night together, talking, telling one another. It was surreal. If it wasn’t more than making out they were expecting, they realised they were on the same page, somehow on the same line. 

At the end of that weekend, she went back to Italy and faced the truth: that life, that seeming stability wasn’t the line she wanted to pursue. She decided to quit literally everything: the job, the relationship, the house, the dog – her entire life. She decided to move to London, a little scared as in all big changes, but without any second thoughts. She embraced a new life, a new line. Him. Happiness, for once.

Sometimes not all negatives turn out badly. She could’ve opted for another pub on that night, he could’ve found a job earlier and never started working there – all wouldn’t have happened. Their lines would have remained separate, probably parallel, but never intertwined. 

See, life can’t be made of “would have, could have, should have”. It’s made of choices, possibilities, coincidences. It’s made of lines.

Multiple.

Not just one. Straight. Direct.

Just like my mum said.

And I will always feel blissful for the line that took you through that door on that Friday night, the line that gave me the opportunity to meet you. The line that I’m hoping to tread together.

I want to live multiple lines, but one single life.

Ours.



Jim
The Britalian Post



A friend of mine

A friend of mine shared a song with me once.

He knew for sure I’d like it – at once and multiple times – that I’d treasure it and add it to one of my Spotify playlists.

That I’d listen to it on repeat.

At once and multiple times.

A friend of mine shared a song with me once and he knew I’d make an all-around experience out of it, of the different beats, parts, sounds, words. That I’d picture a moment of my life at once, if not multiple moments, multiple timelines of things I’d wish had happened, or hadn’t happened. That I’d sit in contemplation on one of the Underground’s filthy and dusty seats on a late night journey to north London scanning the emptiness of the middle carriage, slowly jerking my head to the top and down back to the doors, watching people chatting and laughing while hopping on and off the train and feeling heavy-hearted for no freaking good reason; or recalling when she let me down, when I tumbled to how my professional career wasn’t a fit, dreaming of becoming a rockstar, of succeeding just once. If not multiple times. That I’d stumble inside out myself feeling like a real shit because that song would awaken my beats, parts, sounds, words. He knew it would happen at once. In fact, multiple times.

A friend of mine shared a song with me once and he’d feel like a real shit – he’d feel exactly like I feel. He knew for sure he’d make an all-around experience out of it because he’d make an all-around experience of my different beats, parts, sounds, words. Of my multiple moments. During bad and good times. At once and multiple times.

He knew for sure I’d like it, the same way I knew for sure he’d be my friend.

At once and multiple times.



Jim
The Britalian Post

Find somebody worth dating

“I never seem to find anybody worth dating and investing my time in…”, she claimed, putting on a blue smile while dealing with the consequences of her own words.

That night, the view from the rooftop in Peckham was stunning and the city lights illuminated a distance where mixed memories were chasing after one another. And the more she stared, the more she would brood over them.

If you have a think through, we’ll never know if somebody is worth our attention until we set ourselves free of the disappointments from past relationships and give others an opportunity.

She is a friend of mine – a little snobby and snotty but a very naive and funny character overall. I’ve never seen her down or sad about something; I’ve rarely heard her bringing up problems, and she’s always talked about them with a strong positivity. Although love pains lie deep inside and not all of us are always comfortable with sharing them.

The last time she fell for somebody ended up with a disastrous finale.

She was hitting on this Dutch guy who used to work in her same building for months. He did like her back but wasn’t really returning her attention and seemed to be actually quite stiff when it came to drawing conclusions. Anyway, this inconstant and illegible behaviour set her off really badly and on the last time they saw each other, on the occasion of free drinks at the co-working space, she shouted at him damn loud for not being able to man up and make decisions and scared the shit out of him so much that the guy moved to another co-working space eventually.

Priceless!

However the minor delusion, the situation still had an impact on her already fragile feelings, making her doubt once again the possibility of any new rising relationship and denying other people any opportunity to find their way into her life.

Even though her reaction was understandable but somehow unjust, she was very right about one thing: you’ll never find anybody worth dating.

Most times it’s not about giving other people an opportunity. It’s just about giving that opportunity to ourselves.

Jim
The Britalian Post

The social compromise

A captivating style, an alluring outfit, is something that many look to achieve – even if it means wearing those ball-squeezing skinny jeans (ouch!) that pump up your butt and define your legs.

The clothing you choose is more or less the upshot of what you like wearing and what makes you feel like you look good. But this “looking good” changes according to the circumstances you find yourself in.

For this reason, based on the situation, “looking good” becomes a social compromise.

Aware of appearances always coming first, that Essex girl knew a thing or two about social compromises. In fact, she had to dress up for work – but in her daily life, she would opt for ripped jeans and brazen hoodies. According to her friends, that just wasn’t adequate for a lady, and she‘d have to show more flesh if she wanted to be noticed. Then, I mean, if someone needs to take an accurate look at your boobs before even hearing you pronouncing your name, just make sure it’s worth agreeing to that social compromise.

As a result, appearances lead us to act accordingly: by adapting our look to different circumstances and to what people would want us to look like. We get so deeply influenced that, eventually, all that is left of us is nothing but pure appearance.

Even that Essex girl had to take a step back, follow her friends’ wise advice and abide by that social compromise:

“If you don’t like what I’m wearing, you can just go fuck yourselves!”

Jim
The Britalian Post

White trainers not allowed

In view of the trip to York to attend the Jorvik Viking Festival with Ed, I thought I would buy a comfortable new pair of trainers to walk about town. As soon as I entered Sports Direct, I found a very convenient deal on this pair of white Everlast trainers – 50% off. Great! Fit well, look good – I handed over £25 without hesitation.

Upon arrival in York, we made our way downtown, which gave me the opportunity to test the performance of my new shoes. Also, they were really cool and looked damn stylish under my black pants. You know, when you believe you’ve found the right match, you feel so a la mode that you start hitting the street like a badass. And that’s exactly what I did.

In the evening, we started exploring the nightlife moving from a bar to another, drinking our way into the night and checking the local fauna. Yes, girls.
Two well-dressed chicks approached us for scrounging a smoke and suggested that we should join them in this exclusive club called The Biltmore. After they gave me a few compliments, comparing my appearance to a someone I don’t know who the hell it is (the York accent sounds like cavemen’s), Ed was addressed as Tommy Shelby from the show Peaky Blinders (do watch it if you haven’t) and was asked to put on his Birmingham accent over and over again. Although the awkward moment, we decided to go check out this place.

On the spot, we started peeking at the inside from the opposite sidewalk to make certain that there was something good going on in there. Yes, once again, girls.
We both felt very cool: Ed with his newly acquired popularity, me with my great outfit. So, I mean, we bowled up to the entrance like we owned the place. 

Unfortunately, the bouncer stopped us immediately: “Sorry, white trainers are not allowed in here.”

“What?! This is the most stupid rule I’ve ever heard!” – I cried out.
Ed wasn’t too bothered, well, not as much as I fucking was. He made a smirky laugh and suggested that we’d go to Valhalla, a typical Viking bar just a few streets away. We made acquaintances with these two amusing ladies: one in her late forties, the other in her mid-thirties; the former being completely plastered!
*Between her slurred attempts at flirting through an acrid, bitter breath, I suddenly noticed that her glass was swaying uncomfortably in my direction. Before I knew it, my prized new trainers became stained with the memory of her.* She poured a whole pint of stout over my freaking new shoes that quickly absorbed the liquid and turned into a light brown tone. The shining white was totally gone. Fucking bitch!

*[Ed wrote this bit himself. I mean, he’s co-starring in the story, so I have to give him some credit. :D]

There. Since my trainers were no longer white, it was worth taking another shot back at the club. Though, for your information, we didn’t get any closer.

The truth is, appearances always matter.
Whether you’re smart, deep, interesting, trustworthy people, or just wanna spend a great weekend with your bud, the way you speak, the words you use, the way you act, the way you move, the clothes you wear, will always come first. So if you wish to be accepted among people – people who “matter” – just erase what you’ve always believed in, re-build your personality or whoever you’ve been all along, wear some glossy outfit, be a yes-man, and you’ll get everywhere. In one sentence: follow the rule.  

And remember: don’t wear fucking white trainers!

Jim
The Britalian Post

Valentine’s Day

Valentine’s Day.

The day when love’s in the air. The day when heart-shaped decorations are hanging pretty everywhere. The day when themed chocolate and treats of all sorts stack up at each main joint of the city.

The day when boys and girls hold hands, exchange flowers and sweet presents. The day when restaurants are packed and couples eat fancy gourmet food. The day when men miserably run out of money to impress. The day when being romantic is rather fair.

The day everybody thinks it’s commercial but they end up celebrating it anyway.

The day you yourself think it’s commercial but you wouldn’t mind opening the door and finding the person you love. Just like you do every day but today more than others.

The day when you get back home and sit alone – and it’s just another day.

But then my cuz knocks on the door holding a bottle of red wine.

And it’s again Valentine’s Day.

Jim
The Britalian Post

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